


Unraveling

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Blindfolds, Kink Enlightenment, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Punishment, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems Edward can't quite learn from his mistakes. Creative punishments are in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Anna](http://lolisoup.tumblr.com/) over the course of a few months, in small chunks via Tumblr fanmail, specifically to torment her into drawing me porn.
> 
> Happy October 3rd, y'all. :D
> 
> (Not sure where this fits into canon since Ed still has his automail and is working subordinate under Roy, but mentions the extended camping trip with Greedling during the Promised Day. It's probably post-canon, but I like automail so he still has it? Doesn't really matter, to be honest, but I like thinking about context.)

_“I like the chase, scavenging and how we unravel. Standing naked with all my pores at the door. Waiting for a response, a love, someone to call my home. Where my emotions graze the air and I’m lying half past gone.”  
_ _― Dominic Riccitello_

 

Gagged, blindfolded, tied by his legs to an uncomfortable folding chair, arms tied behind his back with his palms to elbows, he really should be terrified out of his wits. His bare feet curl against lacquered floor, so at the very least he’s been detained somewhere nicer than an underground prison. There is, however, a draft; without a shirt, the cool air is distracting his ability to concentrate. At least they left him his pants.

There’s footsteps echoing toward him, through the wall -- a hallway, most likely. A doorknob jiggles and opens. He can hear the slight difference in sound quality, which means the room he’s in is likely small. He tongues at the round gag in his mouth, but there’s still no leeway and he’s not going to embarrass himself by trying to talk through the rubber. The footsteps approach him and stop about a foot in front of the chair.

Ed recognizes that scent. Simple detergent, heady cologne, the afterbite of fire. He swallows without meaning to, shifts in his seat.

He did level an apartment complex in Altheim, but he already apologized for that, and anyway, it’s not his fault the support beams were made of splintery wood. The architects in charge of building it should have known better.

Apparently, lectures are no longer good enough punishment for the General. He’s resorted to kidnapping and intimidation tactics.

Ed can’t quite bring himself to mind.

“Fullmetal,” he says low, soft, a curl of smoke that drifts up Ed’s spine. “I’m sure you understand why you’re here.”

Ed tries to talk despite himself. The noise he makes is blocked by the gag, incomprehensible.

“You need a lesson in restraint,” Mustang says. Ed shakes his head. “No?”

Ed can almost hear the smirk, definitely hears the rasp of flint cloth and the snap that sets the rope around his legs on fire. A controlled burn, one he can feel the heat from but not one that’s going anywhere. It burns itself out and Ed finds he can move his legs, the rope disintegrated to ashes.

“On your knees, boy,” Mustang orders him, and he hates it, but something about that tone, that delicious slant to the order, and he’s on knees before the General before he can scarcely think. Mustang inhales sharply. “Good dog,” he murmurs. A gloved hand strokes through Ed’s unbraided hair.

Ed swallows on the gag again.

“Now,” Mustang says in the same dominant tone, “You can behave yourself and this will go quickly, or you can be rebellious and brattish and this will go much more painfully than it ought. Do you understand?”  
  
Ed nods.

“Good.” The hand disappears. “Now, do try to relax.” It settles on his spine, stroking along his shoulder blades. Ed shivers and, damn himself, moans.

Mustang pauses, chuckles. “Interesting.”

Just because Ed is awkwardly finding himself into this doesn’t mean he has to lie over like a dog with its belly up. He was just taken off guard, is all. Mustang does NOT deserve his obedience, not like this.

He waits until Mustang seems to believe his submission, listening carefully to the man’s breathing, to the shift of something being pulled out of a thick woolen pocket. It stretches, squeaks -- something leather, but Ed isn’t going to wait to see what it is and what Mustang is planning.

He stands fluidly, aiming a roundhouse to Mustang’s face. He connects with the side of a shoulder; Mustang dodging out of the way, swearing softly. He doesn’t give him a chance to get his bearings, continues following the sound of his footsteps, his harsher breathing. Ed kicks into air more often than not. If only his arms weren’t tied, he could do this properly, definitely subdue the bastard, blindfold be damned.

Sweat burns his eyes and it’s hard to breathe past the gag. But he is going to land a kick, dammit, he is going to show Mustang he is no one’s bitch --

Something snaps out against his abs, sharp and cracking the air. It’s not the pain that takes him off guard; he’s known much worse than this. He hadn’t expected Mustang to have -- whatever it was, a crop, maybe -- fucking ironic, a riding crop -- and he stumbles a few steps backward.

That’s all the bastard needs, that moment of weakness. In the next breath, Ed finds himself smashed face-first into a wall, Mustang’s warm body pressing him tightly down so he can barely squirm.

“You little brat,” he hisses into Ed’s ear, lifting him slightly only to slam him back down, pinning harder. Ed is drooling around the gag in embarrassingly large quantities, breath huffing through his nose like a dog.

Thank fuck he’s facing the wall. Mustang at least doesn’t get to see how much this is affecting him.

“Apparently,” Mustang growls, still pressed so close, and Ed absolutely will not grind his hips backward into the man, “we’re doing this the hard way.”

A hand roughly twines into his hair and yanks back hard, forcing Ed’s face toward the ceiling. He bites down on the gag to keep from making sound. “It was going to be three lashes,” Mustang says into the bowl of his ear, breath ghosting along his outstretched neck, “but perhaps now I’ll see how many you can take.” He strokes the crop down Ed’s side, and Ed shivers. “If you are quite done and willing to apologize, you may use the word Sir to address me, and I’ll stop.”

He lets go of Ed’s hair and fingers open the gag. The straps fall, hanging from his mouth where the ball still remains, the metal fasteners dusting his collarbone. Mustang puts his hand under Ed’s chin and says quietly, almost gentle, “Open.”

Ed opens his mouth and lets the gag drop into Mustang’s hand.

“Good boy,” Mustang murmurs. “Do you understand the situation?”

“Yes,” Ed answers raggedly.

“Wonderful,” Mustang says, replacing his hand on the back of Ed’s neck. “Now please, Fullmetal, be good for me and kneel.” His thumb strokes just below the knob of his cervical vertebrae.

Ed sinks to his knees, licks his lips, and swallows his urge to moan.

Ed knows how this is going to work. Mustang is going to hit him a few times, not very hard, ask if Ed’s done, and expect him to cry Uncle -- or, in this case, Sir -- just to get out of the situation.

This is not what Ed is going to do. He is absolutely not going to back down. Pain is an old friend. Maybe not one he welcomes with open arms, but one he knows intimately all the same. He is not going to say a word. He is going to keep taking hit after hit until Mustang is the one apologizing.

Mustang walks a little circle around him, as if assessing where best to hit. Ed’s arms cross over his mid-back, rendering it a rather awkward target. His abs are at the wrong angle. Shoulders, perhaps?

The crop swats his ass. “Oh fuck,” Ed says before he can stop himself. He bites his tongue.

“One,” Mustang says. Ed holds his breath and recites the elements in his mind.

Another swat, harder than the last one. “Two.”

_...Lead, tin, iron, gold…_

Mustang clucks his tongue, giving Ed two prompt whacks to either side of his ass. “Three, four.”

Ed finds his front has slipped down to press against the cool floor, ass up. His mind stutters and settles again on his mantra: _copper, mercury, silver._

The crop eases up over his spine, stroking his bare skin with the heated leather. Ed grunts and spreads his knees wider.

“Awfully quiet, Fullmetal,” Mustang goads. Ed hardly hears him, mouth silently forming words to keep his grasp on them. He gets to saltpeter before Mustang snaps him again.

He whines.

“That’s five.” Mustang’s voice is quicksilver, pooling against his eardrums. “Remember, you can call me to stop at any time.”

“Please,” Ed rasps.

The crop pets at his spine again. “Please what?”

“More.”

The crop stills.

For a terrifying moment, Ed thinks that Mustang has gone away. His heart pounds so heavy in his ears he couldn’t hear the man’s retreat even if he wanted to; but then the crop is back, tracing butterfly-light lines along the backs of his bound arms.

“You want more?” he confirms. Ed moans an agreement, blood too thick and insistent in his veins to feign disinterest.

There’s a clatter on the floor to his right, something slender and probably the crop. He doesn’t realize the whine edging past his clenched teeth until Mustang’s gloved hands are touching his bare skin. He gasps, arches into that touch with a greed that would impress his homunculus friend, if he could just see it. Mustang murmurs to him, as if he’s feral. He feels like a wild animal right now, but not one of violence. One of need, sheer lust dripping from his jaws and quaking in his bones.

Mustang stands him up against his uniformed torso. The ignition gloves creep down his abdomen to the catch of his pants. Ed fights between holding his breath and panting encouragements. Getting the pants down past his thighs is a struggle; the leather catches on the port of his automail, constricts like a snakeskin too tight for shedding. Mustang growls in his ear at the effort. Quaking knees can’t be helping, but Ed can’t control his joints. He can’t even hold onto the other man to keep from falling down. He just has to trust that he’ll be caught if he gives in to the gravity of the moment.

His cock is so hard, he feels the trickle of precum at the tip, begging to be touched. His pants are only at his knees. Mustang kneels behind him to yank them the rest of the way down. Ed stays very still for him, knowing obedience will get him quicker to what he wants.

A tiny “ha!” puffs against his thigh as the pants are finally divested of Ed’s legs. He steps out of them gracelessly, stumbling until a warm hand catches his hip. The hand leaves a moment later.

“Come here,” Mustang orders. Ed turns and steps after the sound of his voice, wobbling like he’s just learned to walk. The room doesn’t have a draft, but Ed still feels unbearably cold; the only thing he’s wearing anymore is the blindfold.

“Here,” Mustang says again to give him his bearings. The voice is slightly lower, so he must have sat in the chair. Ed nearly trips on Mustang’s foot as he finds him. His lungs suffocate in his throat, fluttering like a startled frog. Hands catch his waist and keep him from falling. He sits, trembling too hard to stand, and finds himself on Mustang’s knee.

He leans back against the other man, breath shaky and loud to his own ears. Mustang’s hands -- damned, bastard, wonderful hands -- stroke small lines through his pubic hair, but do nothing to touch his erection. “Tell me,” Mustang murmurs soft against his hair, “have you always hidden an attraction for me? Or is this merely situational?”

“Bastard,” Ed gasps, bucking his hips into empty air.

“Mm, unfortunate,” Mustang says. His gentle stroking stops; Ed finds himself roughly handled, too shocked to fight it, until he’s ass up over the General’s thighs. He grinds into the rough fabric and is punished with a quick swat to his bare ass.

“Ohhh.” Ed stops grinding, curling the small of his back so his ass is presented in what he hopes is an irresistible display. He is rewarded with another spank, this one hard enough to sting.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” Mustang says.

“Uh-huh,” Ed says.

“And you know what happens to bad boys.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.” It comes out breathless, almost begging.

“You deserve enough spankings to leave you bruised and unable to sit down tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Definitely a beg. He rolls his ass higher.

Mustang delivers another swat. “I’m going to be more frequent now. Let me know if you want to stop.” The tone is different than the mocking it was before, like he really does want to gauge Ed’s comfort level now.

“Yessir,” he rasps. He feels the man’s legs tense beneath him.

Ed loses count of the spanks, but still feels them singing across his goose-pimpled skin. His entire body is a quivering mass of endorphins, rolling down his spine and through to his toes and fingertips. He whines and mewls without much self control, only stopping when Mustang pauses to stroke gentle fingers across his throbbing flesh.

“You’re taking this so well,” the General praises. Ed hums, hoping for more of that honeyed voice. “Are you going to behave yourself for me after this?”

“Maybe,” Ed says, still cognizant enough to be a little shit. He gets another smack for that -- his nerves jump, not used to the intensity after the brief cool-down. He giggles, the tiny hitches of breath tittering out of him like starlings.

“I ought to truly break you,” Mustang rumbles at him. There’s a rustle, a flump of something falling, and then a bare hand, spreading his cheeks open and prodding at his pucker. Ed shudders and gulps in air.

Mustang holds his cheeks apart and spits. It’s cold and hits him right at the ring of muscle, immediately followed by a much warmer finger.

He wants to be good, he doesn’t want Mustang to stop touching him, but… “I-I haven’t really,” he stutters, the heat of shame brushing over his cheeks and down his neck and shoulders.

Mustang pauses, not pressing the tip of his finger in like he was clearly planning on. Instead, he traces circles around the sensitive skin. Ed shudders beneath him and feels a little drunk from the attention. “Haven’t experimented with anal,” Mustang asks, “or had sex at all?”

“I haven’t exactly had time.” It’s not like he’s completely inexperienced. Ling and Greed were more than happy to give him a crash course in homosexuality in the month leading up to the Promised Day. Even as crass and blunt as Greed was, he wasn’t willing to try for the Whole Shebang, as he called it, in a shitty tent without anything but spit for lube. “I’m not a _virgin_ , I just haven’t…”

“Perhaps this isn’t the best circumstance to introduce you.” Mustang’s touch disappears.

“No, you asshole, you can’t do that!” Ed snarls, wriggling in anger. “Fuck me or so help me I’ll demolish two buildings next time!”

“Brat,” Mustang says with some level of affection.

“Do it, Mustang.”

“As you wish.”

Mustang’s finger isn’t rough, exactly, but there’s still a slight burn of resistance as he presses it into Ed to the first knuckle. Ed finds himself clenching hard around the digit, a startled groan brushing over his tongue without permission.

“You need to relax,” Mustang murmurs into his ear, free hand stroking a gentle curve over his shoulder. Ed shudders and tries to unclench.

_Deep breath in, let it out. Deep breath in…_

Mustang traces small circles into his shoulder blade and Ed focuses on that small point of contact, It’s meditative, the circle. No beginning or end. Such an intrinsic part of alchemy. Ed notices but doesn’t react when Roy presses his finger deeper, just spreads his legs a little wider and waits. Mustang spits on him again, his lower back, letting a trail of saliva pool there - it should be disgusting but the air cooling at the wetness feels nice.

Mustang draws an array with the saliva and activates it, turning the whole pool into something more viscous. Changed the composition to something with more glycoprotein content for lubricant, probably. So fucking hot that he knew how to do that. Ed pants, head reeling with the ozone stench, fingernails and automail digging into the flesh of his elbows. It’s the only thing he can reach.

The finger inside him withdraws; he whimpers at its loss, too far into the heady expectation to feel embarrassment over how slutty he feels. Mustang dips his hand in the pool of freshly-alchemized lube and returns to him, sliding two fingers in at once. The stretch is amazing, burns slightly, but he feels so full and Mustang’s fingers are so gentle, pressing in slow and even.

“How’s that?” Mustang’s voice is soft, low with a timbre that makes Ed feel safe. The hand not occupied by his ass goes to his hair, stroking through it to his scalp. Ed moans.

“So good,” he says.

“You’ll be a good boy for me?”

“Uh-huh.”

The fingers on his scalp find a spot just at the nape of his neck, and if Ed had the right vocal chords, he’d be purring.

“You won’t destroy things needlessly anymore?”

“On’y if you do this e’ry time after.” Ed can’t quite find his tongue in his mouth. He rolls his hips upward, aching for release of some kind.

Mustang chuckles. “I could make arrangements for that.” The fingers press deeper and crook, stroking at his insides.

Ed shoots off onto Mustang’s lap, whining through his nose. The cum sticks him to the rough woolen fabric of Mustang’s trousers. He thinks he’d maybe cry, if he weren’t so spent. His ass feels abruptly empty as Mustang drags his fingers back out of it, stroking the mess of lube across a cheek.

“Gorgeous,” he rumbles. “Good dog.”

Ed squeaks in response.

Roy unties him and leaves Ed to clean himself up, letting the door click behind him. Without the blindfold, the light is disorienting and stings Ed’s eyes. When he adjusts, his eyes widen and his entire body feels like it’s flushed red - they were in a spare holding room, used for interrogations.

“Shit,” he says under his breath.

Fucking Mustang, making him get all hot and bothered in this weird situation.

Fuck Mustang.

But also: fuck, _Mustang_.


End file.
